Festival fatigue?

The festival's always a bit trying if you live in Edinburgh, but living slap bang in the middle of post-midnight buskers playing either bagpipes* or the same three Oasis songs over and over again is starting to irritate me ever so slightly. So apologies in advance if this entry is a bit on the misanthropic side.

Thinking back to the week, I can't actually remember anything noteworthy happening other than going for a decent run (10k, including Arthur's Seat) with Jez. I must have done something else, but it's just not coming back. Your guess is as good as mine. (In fact, my own guess, involving plinking away on the bass and procrastinating about going for another run, is probably close enough to the truth. Add your own ideas below - perhaps something will jog my memory.)

On Friday night a few of us went out for some festival boozing, traipsing from over-stuffed bar to over-stuffed bar and marvelling at the sheer, awesome ineptitude of some of the bar staff. Make no mistake; a heroic few were pumping out booze like it was Iraqi oil, but we seemed to get only the preening, quiffed clothes horses who were happier shining cocktail shakers than deigning to serve us. We wound up in Teviot, the only place not packed to the rafters, and admitted defeat at 3.30 am after roughly one beer per mile travelled. Most unsatisfactory.

A jaunt through to Glasgow for a TM practice filled most of Saturday. We recorded some demos on Doug's new 4-track, and despite a generally plodding session, they're pretty promising. We packed up at 6 pm and set up the 4-track in Doug's flat, spending a wanky but pleasing few hours tweaking equalisation and volume while eating burgers from the incomparable Wishbone café. Such was Saturday, apart from a gruelling train journey home where the carriage was populated half with moronic Rangers supporters (and part-time UVF members by the sickening sound of their idiot singing) and half with sane, normal people willing them to fuck off.

On Sunday I went for a run, had a shower and then sweated copiously for about an hour an a half. Just didn't stop. If I hadn't felt absolutely fine, I would have sworn I was ill. Trying on a pair of sunglasses in a Rose Street shop, I could see the shop assistant looking out of the corner of her eye, thinking "Who is this perspiring cretin? When will he leave my poor shop and cease sweating all over the merchandise?"

I didn't buy the sunglasses, and instead went home until I could move without dripping.

Dave, two of his Kilmarnock mates and I went to see Rob Newman that night. Thought-provoking show: political polemic crossed with The Mary Whitehouse Experience. Good stuff.

[Got to be off now - we have a potential new flatmate coming round. Apologies for the rushed entry. Not often you hear that, eh?]

* Oscar Wilde once defined a gentleman as "someone who knows how to play the bagpipes but doesn't." RF 1, guy playing pipes outside our window at 1am, nil.